


Correction

by viceindustrious



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23859922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: Discipline  between Joe Blake and John Smith
Relationships: Joe Blake/John Smith
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Correction

Time is slow here, thick as honey around him.

Honey is something he's read about in hand-me-down paper books, the pages soft and yellowing. Honey, treacle, something sweet that's put on bread that a mother in an apron doles out to her children about to go on an adventure.

“Oh, Joe,” Obergruppenführer Smith says, disappointed.

Joe stands in front of him, working divots into his palms with the bitten tips of his fingernails.

He wants to look up, but his gaze is fixed toward the ground. How many times has he sat too close to the television set, watching Smith on screen?

(Ever since that first time, when he'd had men in uniform roaring at him from every side, when he'd been kicked out of the Hitler Youth and finally found himself shivering in front of Smith who had weighed and evaluated him and told him he might have potential.)

Each blurry, televised occasion, the sound of his voice. Joe _knew_ he was talking to him each time. Pressing fingertips to the static of the screen. _Yes, dad, I'll be good_.

And now.

"Oh dear," murmurs Smith, pulling him over his lap, pulling his underwear down too. Joe doesn't resist, although he opens his mouth to speak. Smith shuts it with a hard grip on the back of his neck: a pincer that makes Joe moan despite himself and Smith gives a quiet snort which might be disapproval, or surprise, or amusement.

He grits his teeth at the first slap. It doesn't hurt but it grinds him against Smith's leg and he's already hard, he was hard before they even escorted him up here. When Smith had motioned there was no hesitation and the only thing that stopped the 'anything' from slipping between his lips was that Smith wasn't interested in what he had to say..

 _I'm sorry,_ he thinks as he feels the burn of each slap driving his cock to rut against Smith's lap. Over and over and then, the heat and scent of Smith thick in his nostrils.

“I'm sorry, dad.” As soon as he says it he knows he has lost more than just control.

Those fingers close more tightly around his neck and he squirms, he squirms even in the moments that Smith's palm doesn't come down to strike hard against his backside and push bruises deep within him. He squirms against him like a bitch that would rut against anything (like his mother did, didn't she? That's what he's heard.)

He wriggles in that absence and wants to forget it, maybe it's easier to think it was beyond his control, that there's something in him that Smith could sniff out – a born whore, not that he was gasping and squirming and looking for attention and using that reedy, boyish epithet. _Sorry, dad. Sorry, daddy_

Pushing off that lap with his cock sticky and softening in his underwear.

He tries to meet the Obergruppenführer's eyes but his gaze gets stuck on those boots.


End file.
